Stars
by Songbird Sanctuary
Summary: He dreams of stars, a milky sunrise, and dandelions blown in the wind.  A wincest drabble


My first go at wincest. :) Small drabble written to pass the time. (Yes, one of those cheesy ones you can find all over Tumblr.)

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><p>He dreams of stars, a milky sunrise, and dandelions blown in the wind.<p>

They sit in a field. Rugrats, the eldest hardly ten and cradling the head of the youngest in his lap. The grass is green as it should be. From above, God lets grains of sand sift through his fingers and flowers deck the plain of green with the same pink as that of their cheeks. The older boy gently giggles, running his hand through his brother's hair, and if the entire thing got any cornier Dean would have jolted right awake from sickness.

He wakes up on a hard bed smelling like sweat and cheap beer. He doesn't tell Sam about it over breakfast.

When the poltergeist's ass is flattened to ashes, he hits the same mattress and falls through a void into an indigo galaxy with blinking stars. The space stretches out as far as the eye could see, and when he spins around he realizes he's on a field again, with the same children as before and a few others he doesn't recognize, taller than he remembers. One head protrudes out from the rest, and the teen breaks free from the crowd, works the basketball around two boys and shouts Catch! It lands in safe hands the next moment, though he hadn't called out a name, and it turns out he doesn't need to because the ball spins on the rim, and plunges in.

"Don't you sometimes wish we were a little less screwed up back then?" He says, and Sam glances at him from the passenger's seat.

"No."

Day three, and the boy with the short cropped hair had earned himself a broken nose, the kind that stays forever. The Shorter Boy needs a new nickname, and had grown a head of silky hair. He watches him read a bizarre-looking book—bizarre because it is paperback, with silver letters on the binding, and he rolls the pages he'd read in his big hands. Bizarre because there is no leather binding, no pentagrams engraved, and he is smiling down at the words. Dean wakes up the next morning smiling too, and Sam doesn't seem to know why.

Day four, and the end of midnight movies has him falling into a lake, and he kicks around until he can no longer hold his breath, opening his eyes just in time to see the flutter of lids as they open, the hazel pearls within glistening in the dark. Sam's lips leave his—_Sam,_finally a name, Sam—and he suddenly understands why he can breathe again.

He gets to learn Sam's body. He gets to caress his cheeks and unclip his buttons while holding his gaze, breathing in unison in close proximity. He gets to kiss the crevices, the nooks and crannies, the curve of Sam's neck and the soft spots behind his ears. He gets to hear Sam breathe, gasp, whimper, gets to feel the press of his supple body against his own, flushed and beautiful and his to claim_._ When Sam comes, he moans "Dean", and all of a sudden he's awake, with his back to Carmen and his front to a picture frame on the nightstand, where two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, with their wives against their sides.

He stands in the cold shower, ashamed, so _ashamed_, afraid to touch his erection as if with one brush of his hand the world explodes. The water stops and he rolls over to Sam not a foot from his face, and there is something like warm liquid in his eyes. He wipes the tears away, angered and perplexed by his dream self for being a huge sissy, and feels the dip of the mattress as Sam sits up beside him.

"Man, you okay?" Sam says, laying a gentle hand on his wrist. Dean stares at it, slowing the pounding of his heart and shakes his head in fatigue. "Bad dreams?" Sam asks, quiet in the morning silence.

"Yeah, well," he mumbles, "depends."

Sam lets out a soft sigh. Dean hears the blanket shift, and Sam's hands are on his bare shoulders, rubbing in circles to loosen his back. Sam is warm, almost as warm as he remembers from the dream. He pecks casual kisses to the back of Dean's neck. He smells the same. His hair is the same fine thread that tickles his ear. But his fingers are calloused, stronger than they were, their roughness an accumulation of everything they've overcome together. Demons, creatures, angels; to hell and back, the Apocalypse that never was, and the devil himself. Every moment in their messed up lives, carved in dry cracks on these hands.

He holds them now, and wraps them around his waist.

The next time Dean drops onto a pillow, he stays. He doesn't dream of stars and sunrises, doesn't dream of flowers. He doesn't dream of all the things they never had and were, because he knows now. He knows. He's got everything he needs right here.


End file.
